


Blood of Apollo

by federalist



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Enjolras dies, Gen, I Am Sorry, kind of exr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/federalist/pseuds/federalist
Summary: Grantaire wakes up a few minutes too late.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 27





	Blood of Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> um whoops i sort of took some liberty on this one because i wrote it at 4am with my jank grammarly app so cut me some slack

Grantaire had awoken from his drunken slumber. 

The cynic sluggishly rose from the table as he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes until he saw spots dance in his vision. He groaned as he stumbled away from the table. The small shards of glass that brushed against his shoes skidded across the dusty floor with a soft scraping noise. It was the only sound to be heard in the desolate Musain. The eerie stillness of the barren room now startled Grantaire. The constant gunfire from either side of the barricade had been silenced. The cries of the alarmed boys and the shouts of the troops just outside could no longer be heard. Was there not a rebellion going on, or had he dreamt it all? A man’s imagination ran rampant when intoxicated.

To Grantaire’s surprise, the windows of the café had been smashed in, hence the glass covering the floor, and the front entrance looked as if it had been blockaded by planks and tables and then forcefully broken into. The sight of that made his gut fill with dread. There had been some sort of conflict there and Grantaire had slept through it all. It was a horrendous feeling: something tugging at the pit of his stomach to tell him that none of this was right, that the state of the scene around him should not be like this— that the serenity of the area was terribly wrong. Uprisings were not supposed to be quiet events, yet Grantaire could hear a pin drop. 

But perhaps he was mistaken. As he neared the windows on the other side of the room, there were surely voices that spoke outside. Perhaps it was over, but there was surely a price that was paid. Grantaire may have missed it, but there were always sacrifices to be made for the greater good, as Enjolras always said. The voices sounded calm. They were conversing as normal, and the panic that had started to bubble in the artist’s stomach had begun to subside.

And then he got a closer look. 

The men on the barricade were not radical revolutionaries, let alone students. It was the National Guard outfitted in royal blue. Soldiers stood crowded around the barricade and watched as a few of their comrades on the top of the structure dug through the creaking mound of wooden furniture. Some of the men were bloodied. Around a dozen bodies littered the ground at the base of the barricade, drenched in red.

Grantaire’s heart caught in his throat and he instantly staggered away from the window. A majority of those lifeless, limp bodies were not soldiers. The pools of dark red blood seeped through the cracks in the cobble street like black ink soaking through wet parchment. Those men were his friends. He had taunted and teased and joked with those men just days before this carnage was unleashed. Courfeyrac was dead, hunched over at the base of the barricade. Combeferre looked as if he had been run through several times with a bayonet. The body that was once known as Joly was being carried away by the men in blue, leaving a trail of blood on the ground as he disappeared around the other side of the barricade.

Grantaire felt as if he were about to throw up. His hands shaking, he leaned on a wall that was out of view from the outside, helplessly sliding down it until he was sat upon the ground, and then he held back his choked sobs. He had seen Enjolras fire a bullet into the head of the murderer Le Cabuc, which had ultimately left Grantaire speechless and mortified. That was when he realized how violent their insurrection really was. It was something he never believed in. And then Prouvaire, a friend, was captured and slain. All of this, this bloodshed, for what? For an unmarked grave and your blood to be mopped off the concrete like you were never there? Grantaire thought about this bitterly for a few moments, clenching his teeth in order to not let his laments slip from his mouth. He came to the conclusion that he was the only one left alive.

But where was Enjolras?

The thought made Grantaire raise his head, and he stared blankly forward at the wall on the other side of the room.

“Where is Enjolras?” Grantaire murmured to himself. A glimmer of hope and extraordinary optimism flickered inside of the skeptic. He was observant. He had seen the dreadful scene through the broken window of his temporary shelter, and he saw no sign of the leader in red. If he were to be out there, there was no doubt that Grantaire would have spotted him. He smiled to himself. Perhaps Enjolras had gotten away, had fought his way out, or climbed onto the roofs and escaped, or persuaded the kingsmen with his infallible charm and they had parted like the sea to let him go.

As he thought of more improbable circumstances in which Enjolras was safe and sound, a single drop of crimson fell from the ceiling and onto Grantaire’s tan breeches. He gazed at the new burst of color, finding it tremendously ironic how the bright red was directly complementary to the green of his old waistcoat. It was supposed to be this way, he reckoned, then chuckled. It was a weak, hollow noise with no humor in it. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The rosy stain on his pants grew drop by drop, and it was then when he thought he should discover the source of the new colors. He tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling. There was a crack in the boards where the upstairs meeting room was. Thick blood oozed down from this opening, only to land on Grantaire’s knee. 

Unsettled, but with no other innocence to lose, he rose to his feet and made his way to the stairs, quietly walking up. Every step took more and more of his breath away. If he was going to die today— he supposed he would get caught sooner or later and promptly executed— he would at least like closure on who the man trickling blood down onto him was. 

This room was brighter than the one downstairs. Streams of golden sunlight lit up the space through the balcony door and multiple windows. Specks of dust floated around the room carelessly, making the room seem as tranquil as the one below. There were bullet holes in the wall beside the balcony. 

Grantaire stepped up on the last step and looked below the holes in the wall, and his heart dropped into his stomach at the sight before him.

There lied Enjolras.

The leader of the summer revolution was positioned on his side on the wooden floor. His body was mutilated with a dozen bullet holes, and the red fluid had dyed his shirt red to match his overcoat. The red flag of the rebellion was lying next to him.

Grantaire drew closer, not once taking his eyes off of the leader. The golden light of the room seemed more like a dull yellow now. An artist never sees the world as completely bleak unless there is a loss of inspiration. Grantaire’s single inspiration lies lifeless in front of him. He dropped to his knees in front of Enjolras in this pool of his blood. He did not die, but the pain was now his to own, to bear. 

The marble face seemed more marble now than Grantaire had remembered. There was no blush in his cheeks, no rosiness in his lips, no expression of contempt or scorn that Grantaire was so familiar with, nor pride or satisfaction that the thought of rebellion always forced a small smile to form on his face. Art was never supposed to die. It was unusual.

But, he supposed, possibly, Enjolras was never just a piece of art. Enjolras was a god. “Apollo,” Grantaire used to tease him. Grantaire never imagined Enjolras’s blood to be red. Golden, maybe, to match his lustrous hair that was now sprawled behind his head. He was gorgeous. The cynic’s sobs now came out in hard, shaking gasps as he admired the dead god beneath him. Were they tears of grief, or was he overwhelmed by his beauty? Grantaire almost dared to caress the sharp curve of his jaw or the pale, cold skin on his cheek, but he could not bring himself to disturb this masterwork. 

But this was all he had left of this man. He would. Grantaire looked at the balcony, and saw the sun a quarter way through the sky, casting a yellowish gleam on Enjolras that made him look heavenly. His puddle of blood dazzled in the light and Grantaire smiled as he came to a realization. Enjolras was really never meant to grow old, and that is what Grantaire believed now. He believed in him while he was alive, and if this is what Enjolras wanted, he could accept it. He pressed a kiss to his forehead after tucking the red flag into his hand.


End file.
